Becker's Bad Day
by Child of Loki
Summary: In which the ARC is invaded again, he fails to protect the girls, and is severely abused in general. (Genre: ACTION!)
1. Failure

**Disclaimer: I don't own Primeval or its characters…**

**Author's note: Because the more I like a character, the more I abuse them… (I blame watching too much Die Hard as a child).**

**Warning: Violence and coarse language. Please let me know if it's enough to merit a higher rating.

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Captain Becker grunted in frustration as he pulled against the handcuffs that were binding him to the railing, effectively immobilizing him. He was sitting on the edge of the ramp in the heart of the ARC, and yet it was disturbingly abandoned. Everyone had scattered, been rounded up by the invading force or fled into hiding. And here he was, basically sitting on his hands, while hostiles were doing who knew what in his building, to his people.

Being powerless...it was precisely what he despised the most. Worse than just being rendered powerless, to be so while others, those he had sworn to protect were in danger. And more than just a job or his duty, the ragtag team of eccentric, odd, and possibly insane had become his friends.

Willing himself to calm, he strained to listen to the conversation on the edge of his hearing; if one could call it conversation. The voices were most definitely raised-aggressive, tense. And there were no exchange of ideas other than 'do what I say or someone'll get hurt' and 'screw you.' A small flash of pride put a brief smile upon Becker's face as he heard Abby's obviously unhappy, sarcastic tone snipe back at the harsh, unidentifiable male voice. He tried to assign it to one of the goons that had invaded the ARC, but couldn't discern if it was one of the big ones, or one of the even bigger ones.

Judging by the lack of resistance, his men were just as incapacitated as Becker himself. Hopefully, the mercenaries had underestimated the civilians and scientists. The rather poignant lack of violence indicated that Danny Quinn had probably already been deemed a threat and was in no better a position to take back the ARC. Unless Connor was near a computer, he probably wasn't about to pull off some geekery-fueled rescue. And while Sarah was certainly possessing of a great deal of ingenuity, the whole action bit didn't appear to be her strength. However, Abby might be mobile. It was hard to say. The voices seemed to be coming from the vicinity of her arboretum, but no matter how he twisted, he couldn't get a visual. Still, she was definitely a very capable girl. And depending upon the wariness of the man with whom he could hear her quarrelsome voice arguing, she could appear at any moment to free him.

Slowly but surely, Becker had placed his trust in the others. However that did not mean the best course of action at the moment was to wait upon their capability to resolve the situation. Besides, if this was anybody's mess to clean up, it was his. Yet again, he had failed to keep the ARC secure. People had died on previous occasions for his lack of vigilance. _Not this time_.

Forcing down his self-indulgent anger at his failure, he began to survey the area around him for anything that might prove useful. There was nothing within reach, even if he pushed himself beyond the limit of human flexibility. His weapons from which he had been disarmed were sitting atop a table a frustrating few yards away. If he did free himself, they would live to regret leaving them in the open so close to his person.

Noise caused him to snap his head sharply in the other direction, only to find Dr. Page struggling between a pair of very unhappy looking mercenaries as they half-dragged her through the doors opposite. He could tell by the fading wince on the taller man's face, that she likely landed a blow to the man's crotch. Even seasoned fighters couldn't shrug off that kind of pain right away. He stopped mentally congratulating her for putting up some resistance when he saw the ruthless anger in the man's eyes, and the hand tightly clamped at the back of the woman's neck. The mercenary's comrade had the blank look of a man on a job who didn't care either way how it turned out, as long as he came out of it alive and a little richer. But this guy, he was going to make her pay for getting in that blow-not because she had hurt him, but because she had wounded his pride. Not to mention he was the type who liked to hurt people. Becker had seen it enough times before to recognize it in this bastard with only a cursory glance.

This man was going to be a problem. Becker made a note to put him at the top of the list for when he was loosed.

Just then the doors on the side opposite to where Sarah and the thugs had entered swung open, revealing a man not nearly burly or roughed up enough to be a mercenary. There really was no other conclusion than that this was the brains of the operation. Not to mention that he wore a suit (poorly tailored) but definitely not the kit of soldiers-for-hire. He was sort of weasel-like with that furtive, sly look to his eyes. He approached in a pensive gait that said he had far too much riding on this endeavor.

A moment behind, Abby was pushed through into the large space, another muscle-no doubt the one with whom she had been arguing-following closely behind. The two groups met in the center, providing Becker with a convenient view of the proceedings.

Weasel ran a hand through his hair, which judging by its mussed state, was a nervous tendency.

"What do we have here?" he asked, his voice squeaky enough to reaffirm Becker's suspicions about the man's relation to the weasel family.

"We found her trying to slip back into the ventilation system with this," Bored Soldier explained, holding up a handgun she must have retrieved from one of the weapon's lockers.

_Wow_, thought Becker. That wasn't the type of maneuver he had expected from the archaeologist. He thought he had come to understand the woman quite well, but this called for a reevaluation of such conclusions about the intimacy of their friendship.

She crossed her arms and angrily stared down the little man before her, daring him to offer the retaliation for her behavior himself. Weasel looked away, revealing his discomfort and fear to Becker instead of the woman from whom he had attempted to hide it. Just to unsettle him further, Becker winked at him. Unfortunately, unsettling the man wasn't going to buy any immediate or tangible result. The girls were outnumbered four-to-one (not that Weasel would be a problem for either of them), and Becker himself was chained to a steel rail rooted in concrete.

"And your name, Miss...?" Weasel probed after regaining his composure.

Sarah gave him a stubborn, silent look, which elicited a surprising outburst of anger from her interrogator, who roared...well, as much as a weasel such as he could.

"All I'm asking for is a little cooperation," he shouted at the world in general, before continuing his tirade in a more subdued tone. "Is that so much to ask? Nobody's been seriously injured yet." He paused, a bit of darkness flashing in his eyes, one that worried Becker far more than the ruthlessness of the mercenaries. Weasel was a nutter-a violent one.

He fixed his eyes on Abby, who up until this point had found the exchange (specifically Sarah's intimidation of the man) somewhat amusing, and then turned them onto Sarah, adding, "But that can easily be remedied."

With a nod to Sadist, Sarah was forced to her knees by the brutish hand at her neck. The gun was claimed from Bored Soldier and directed purposely at the scientist's head, a self-satisfied grin contorting Weasel's face. Abby tried to jump to Sarah's aide, but was restrained by the goon's arms wrapping around her in a tight bear hug that lifted her off from her feet. She kicked and struggled futilely, calling for them to leave her friend alone.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't going to happen under his watch, not in front of his eyes. Becker pulled against the handcuffs, straining his muscles until they burned and he heard his tendons cracking. Shooting a leg out behind him, he kicked blindly at the base of the post, but he could not land enough blows to even make a dent in time. The arseholes had been smart enough to cuff his arms behind his back around the railing, increasing the difficulty to near impossible that he could free himself.

All in the tableau turned their eyes to him briefly, having forgotten his presence until the violent outburst on his part. However, the distraction was not quite long enough to buy time for Sarah to take advantage. The gun still pointed threateningly at her head. Weasel continued to smile malevolently as her breath became more panicked. She looked to the ground as the moment stretched on, no longer able to stare down the man who stood poised to end her life. She shot an extremely brief glance in Becker's direction. It was but a fraction of a second, but her eyes had found his, and his stomach twisted horribly.

"No mind," Weasel said eventually, handing the gun off to Bored Soldier once more. It was probably less than a minute from when Sarah had been forced to her knees, but it had felt an eternity, one which was inarguably the most painful of Becker's life. Never had he been quite this powerless. Abby apparently felt the same way, as he caught her releasing her breath in an audible sigh as the gun was lowered.

"We have Temple," he concluded. "And you'll find that's all we really need, if he's properly motivated."

Weasel paused, smiling in a manner that seemed to say everything was going his way. Yes, definitely prone to mood swings-instability was never a good sign in a bad guy. They were so very unpredictable.

"Speaking of," he said, clasping his hands together. "I had better go check on the little mad scientist."

"Watch them," he ordered the two mercenaries that had brought in Sarah. "And be careful of James Bond over there," he said, indicating Becker. "He could be a problem."

"Why don't we just kill him?" Sadist asked, a hungry glint in his eye. Becker dared him to get closer. He seemed like the type who would want to see the life drain from a person, and that required a proximity that would lend Becker at least a slim chance at putting up a fight.

"If this doesn't work out," Weasel shut down the mercenary. "We don't want murder added to the list of charges we're accruing, now do we?"

The mercenary shrugged. 'Murder' was a mention on his CV, not something he avoided.

"You're the one paying," he conceded when Weasel gave him a look that begged for verbal confirmation of his orders.

With that, Weasel disappeared into another part of the ARC, where they must have been keeping Connor and possibly some of the others. The big guy released Abby to follow Weasel like a loyal St. Bernard puppy. The young woman fell to the ground, gasping for air. No, wait-it was just an excuse to check on Sarah, who remained in the submissive position into which she had been forced. Obviously, the archaeologist was shaken, but Becker wished he could see her face, read her eyes, know she was still up for a fight.

"He didn't say we couldn't have some fun, though, did he?" Sadist commented to his comrade who shrugged nonchalantly. Then he buried his fist in Sarah's hair, causing her to wince. "You got those two?"

Shooting a glance in Becker's direction, Bored Soldier gave him a half-nod in the affirmative, as he wrestled Abby's arms behind her back and secured them with a zip-tie before sitting her back down on the floor.

"I owe this one something," Sadist sniggered maliciously, before he began to drag Sarah off to the side by her hair. Her hands flailed at finding his wrist, to relieve the pressure from tearing out chunks of her black locks and bits of her scalp along with them.

"Leave her alone!" Abby shouted desperately after Sadist, her eyes large with fear for the other woman.

Why was he such a failure? Becker found himself sinking into self-pity and unable to will himself from it. It would've been better if they had killed him, as much use as he was to anyone... Sarah's kicking feet disappeared around the corner as Abby again shouted for Sadist not to hurt her friend. _Out of sight, out of mind, not hardly._ Every nerve in his body strained to focus upon what he could not see. Bile bit at his throat as the second of silence seemed to stretch on and on. What had he done to her, what was he going to do?

There was a sickening crack, and a grunt from Sarah. It was unmistakable enough. Sadist had struck her. And although he could not say where the man had landed the blow, Becker could tell by the sound that it had been with considerable force. Another, equally heart wrenching sound followed the first, as the bastard struck her again. And again. And again. The assault echoed through the great space, joined by Abby's desperate pleas.

"Stop! Stop it!" she shouted, on the verge of tears.

_Fuck Me! Fuck Me! Fuck Me! _Becker berated himself until a thought occurred to him, over which he cursed himself some more for not thinking of it sooner. But could he get away with it before Bored Soldier caught on? Abby's horror and anger were building into a right rage, and thinking that the ARC soldier was secure, Bored was focusing his entire attention upon preventing the infuriated young woman from going to her friend's aid.

_So, do it!_

Becker gritted his teeth, adjusted the angle of his left wrist oblique to the concrete and with a sharp, focused jab of his combat boot, kicked the appendage as hard as he was capable of doing. He felt his flesh crushed beyond the point of the bones' elasticity, accompanied by the sudden jab of pain as if he'd been stabbed. Successfully broken, but was it enough? For the hundredth time, he tugged at the circle of metal, feeling his wrist give in with a burning submission. The bones of his hand still resisted and it stuck at the base of his thumb.

Sarah cried out in pain, which steeled him more than anything else could have. Having done it once already made the second attempt far more difficult, so he tried not to think about the pain to come, and struck his hand again, a few times in quick succession to ensure the job got done. Hastily, he pulled it through the unforgiving metal ring, trying not dwell upon the unnatural shape of his hand. Finally, he was free to act.

He had to be quick to catch Bored unaware, even though Abby was giving him quite the difficult time, throwing kicks at him while on her feet, as well as from the ground. Unfortunately, the pain resultant from crushing his hand was almost dizzying, and he had to take a moment to fight down the vomit threatening at the back of his throat.

Becker recovered quickly, though, as Bored once again pushed Abby to the floor. The mercenary only had time to turn into the punch he threw at the man's temple, causing him to crumple to the ground. At least freeing himself only cost him the use of one hand...

He looked to Abby, whose eyes practically begged him to assist Sarah, and then ran to the assaulted woman's aide. As they came into view, he could see that Sadist had finally stopped hitting her. Instead he was straddling her waist, and had begun to open her blouse, _the sick.…_

Becker was on him in one swift movement, not slowing a bit for he had already surveyed the situation in the fraction of a second it took for him to close the distance. He wrapped his right arm around the man's neck, hauling him off from Sarah, as he trapped the back of the mercenary's head with his left arm, effectively restraining him in a choke hold, one in which he did not hesitate to apply pressure. As he briefly let his gaze fall upon Sarah's swollen and bleeding face, the man futilely struggling in his grasp, it was all he could do not to shift the placement of his hands and snap the bastard's neck. He tried to tell himself that Sarah wouldn't want that, as the piece of shit lost consciousness, his body turning to dead weight that Becker eased to the floor.

Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, but with the immediate threat eliminated, Becker's mind allowed the screaming pain of his wrist to be heard, and he winced as he stepped forward to check on Sarah's battered form.

And then there was a sharp sound, and a stabbing pain in his side. While his back was turned...could these arseholes be any more craven? Throwing himself to the ground, he found Sadist's sidearm and turned to face the man he had apparently not punched quite hard enough. Abby had been moving to tackle him, but backed off when she saw that Becker had a gun trained on the man. He planted two bullets in Bored's chest before the stunned mercenary could fire off another shot. Maybe the man should pay a little more attention to his work. No, that was unfair. It certainly had been the blow to the head Becker had landed that slowed his reaction time, not to mention skewed his aim enough that he only winged the ARC soldier with the initial shot.

Rolling onto his back, Becker considered just lying there for awhile, breathing heavily, in an immense amount of pain and forming a decent pool of blood upon the floor. But there was still work to be done. And he had no idea what Sarah's condition was. It hadn't looked pretty.

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**A/N: There is more…we'll see if I get the motivation to pen, edit and post it.**


	2. Reprieve

**Author's Note: Had really meant to get this posted a week or two ago, but alas, I failed to add that last little bit. Also, not really feeling this part-the flow is off, they're way OOC or something…**

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He had closed his eyes. Just for a moment. That's all he needed. A little rest. Not much. Just a few minutes, seconds even.

But there immediately was Abby Maitland's panicked voice speaking his name, and a stab of pain as she prodded him in the side-his injured side-with a knee. His eyes shot open.

_Right, work to do. Better shift!_

"Becker, thank god!" she announced. "I thought you had fainted on me."

"I did not _faint_," he corrected her. "I have _never_ fainted in my life."

"Right," Abby conceded, an edge of exasperation to her voice. She gave him a look that questioned whether this was the best time for ego-petting. "Can you help me with this?"

She swiveled, indicating her hands bound securely behind her back.

He couldn't help but groan as he rolled over onto his stomach and tried to push himself up onto his feet, failing upon the first couple of tries. Finally he got a handle on it, and made his way over to where his gear sat obediently waiting. His trusty old combat knife made quick work of the plastic tie, freeing Abby's hands. She ran to Sarah's side. Becker followed at a slower pace as he made an act of checking and securing his sidearm to cover the fact that he was still somewhat unsteady on his feet.

When he knelt down beside the body of the battered woman, he noticed Abby's hand shaking as she searched for a pulse. There was too much adrenaline, worry and fear flooding her mind. He knew that he'd probably be in the same situation despite all his training, had it not been for the pain cutting its way through all else, and leaving a bizarre sort of numb calm in its wake.

He reached out with the still functional fingers of his right hand and the shaken young woman withdrew hers with a grateful look that was nonetheless steeped in worry. His knowledge was nowhere near as thorough as the zoologist shaking beside him, but Becker had learned the importance of being able to evaluate the status of fallen comrades during battle-to ascertain whether they were already beyond saving. It took him a bit of searching to find the archaeologists carotid, but he managed to detect her heartbeat. Like Sarah herself, it was stronger than one would assume by appearances.

He smiled at Abby, who let out a breath in relief, before she got to her feet and promptly recovered the gun that the mercenaries had taken from Sarah, that Weasel had shoved in the archaeologist's face.

"What are you planning, Abby?" he asked, legitimately alarmed at the look of steel in the normally compassionate girl's eyes.

"I'm going to free the others," she said plainly, beyond the point of putting any sarcasm into her response to his questioning the obvious.

"You won't succeed," he returned, equally plainly. He expected a glare, but got only a sad and determined stare. She knew that what she was planning was not wise.

"It's not like you can help in that state," she replied. "Besides, someone needs to stay with Sarah. Her injuries may not be just superficial."

"Which is why you should be the one to look after her-I wouldn't know if she were sleeping or dying," Becker asserted, trying to appeal to Abby's caring nature. Her lip quivered, causing her determined look to waver momentarily before she recovered her composure. All Becker could think was that Connor Temple was one lucky man to have a girl that cared for him so much. For there was no doubt the reason why Abigail Maitland was prepared to depart on a suicide mission. Neither of the young persons seemed willing to admit to it, but they were most apparently madly in love.

With a careful look, Becker reassured himself that Dr. Page was still breathing before abandoning her to render assistance to his other teammate who was in need. Slowly, he approached the girl who visibly shook with building hatred. He knew all too well what witnessing violence could do to one, the fury it instilled to see such injustices.

"Come, Abby," he coaxed, slipping the gun from her grasp. Wait a tick…he was really not on his game today. The weapon was just one of their tranquilizer units. No wonder Abby had been so comfortable with it in her grasp. Sarah's choice in armament made a hell of a lot more sense now. At least, he hadn't misjudged her as much as he had originally thought, even though he had missed something that should've been blatantly obvious to someone of his expertise.

_A damn tranquilizer gun!_

However, Just because she was more likely to pull the trigger on a non-lethal weapon did not mean that Abby should charge off into horrible odds.

"You handle the creatures and the first aid..." He tried to acquire a more authoritative tone, which was difficult with such distress permeating the room. Not to mention the lack of soldiers accustomed to following his orders. "I'll handle this."

She still appeared hesitant to relinquish her vendetta-not used to following commands without question. The problem with civilian types (especially the scientists) was their need to discuss everything to death, to mull things over, reach a consensus. By Becker's standards they were extremely slow to act. Except this time Abby was jumping at the bit for some violence. And he had to be the one to argue against such action.

_Bizarre world at times..._

"This is my job, Abby," he tried to explain so that she'd see the logic in backing down and listening to him. "It's what I'm trained to do. I've trusted you enough to defer to your expertise when dealing with prehistoric monsters. I'm just asking you to return the favor."

This seemed to do the trick, her face softening from its previous hardened look of determination. She nodded her head as his words sunk in and she allowed herself to concede to his argument.

"Alright," she said, "But first, help me put Sarah someplace safe. And I'll take a look at you, too."

"Lester's office," he said, already a step ahead. Weasel was the type of person to dismiss the space for his uses, thinking it too far away from the labs and offices where they were keeping the others, where he was putting Connor to some malicious task, no doubt. The nervous little man wasn't one to think tactically, of how it oversaw the heart of the ARC, how anyone holed up there would have significant forewarning of someone's approach.

With much fuss, and unfortunately not much delicacy, they managed to carry their intermittently unconscious friend to the rather spacious office, placing her gently upon the floor behind Lester's desk-not that it would keep her hidden long if it came to their being discovered there. Becker was beginning to regret the lameness of his left hand for more reasons than the ache that was so severe he had unwittingly begun to grind his teeth. Had he the use of both hands, he would've scooped the injured woman up in his arms and been through with the task in a fraction of the time.

"Medical kit," Abby interrupted his thoughts after she prodded over Sarah for a minute or so. He looked blankly at her. If she had said 'gun' he could've given her numerous locations and access codes to retrieve said item.

"There's one in my lab," she supplied. When he failed to jump-to, she added, "I thought this would qualify under your jurisdiction, Action Man."

He pulled a face at her over the nickname they had bestowed upon him, before judiciously making his way

from Lester's office to the prehistoric arboretum. At least she hadn't called him _Soldier Boy_. That seemed to be Danny's preferred term, and he did not care for its connotation, despite the geniality in its continued usage.

The hostiles appeared to be preoccupied elsewhere, for his entire journey across the admittedly short space was devoid of any activity. Daft of him really, but he had expected to find a little white box, not what Abby Maitland apparently deemed a sufficient emergency medical kit. So it took an amount of searching before he tried the large metal box tucked into the corner. When he returned it to its owner and the contents were unpacked and rifled through, his suspicions were confirmed. It held more equipment than most operating theatres. Which for the worrisome appearance of their battered friend, as well as his own injuries was probably a very good thing.

He had to look away as Abby examined Sarah's injuries, the self-loathing overwhelming his normally stolid composure. The swelling contorting the rather attractive features of her face, the blood variously pooling and leaving crimson trails over her skin as it found paths of least resistance, the bruising all down her forearms from attempting to fend of the blows... He had seen an immense amount of brutal shit in his military career, but nothing quite as sickening as the beating of a defenseless woman to the point where he wasn't even sure if...

"She'll be alright," Abby reassured. Was the anxiety apparent on his face? Taking something unidentifiable from her ample supplies, she leaned over the unconscious woman once more and wafted it under her nose. Smelling salts? Really? That girl was prepared for every eventuality, apparently even that most dire of situations-swooning.

Sarah's eyes reluctantly opened and she took a sharp inhalation of air. Had her face not been obscured by the violence enacted upon her, he no doubt would've been able to read the pain there. As it was, the turn of her breathing from that of the stable, rhythmic unconscious variety to sharp, irregular gasps informed him of the severity of her suffering.

Abby already held one of her hands comfortingly, and although under most circumstances, he'd never consider such an intimate gesture, he took Sarah's hand with his functional fingers in what he hoped to be a gentle, reassuring grasp.

"Don't you have any morphine?" He questioned the closest thing they had to a field nurse, feeling Sarah's grip tighten around his fingers as her nerves began to relay their dismay to her conscious brain.

"Yes," Abby conceded, looking as if she were suffering nearly as much as their teammate. "But she most definitely at the very least has a concussion. Any opiates will act like a sedative. And if she falls asleep right now..."

"She may not wake up again," Becker quietly finished for her, sorry that he could be angry with Abby, that he could think she wouldn't do everything in her capabilities to take away their friend's pain.

Silently, he observed the young woman go about making her friend as comfortable as possible, admiring her calm, reassuring demeanor despite the fact that she was easily as anxious and furious as he was at the moment. While tenderly cleaning up her wounds for a better look, she engaged the archaeologist in random conversation about early human history, an excellent ploy to keep her conscious and distract her mind from the anguish of her body.

"And now for you, Captain," she announced, turning her attention upon his injuries, which caused his own focus to return to them, the pain flooding back over him and threatening to break his control. Instinctively, he recoiled from her outstretched hand, not wanting to admit to anyone or himself the extent of his incapacitation. There was business that he still had to take of, after all. And he couldn't do that if he were being coddled.

"C'mon," Abby coaxed, wry smile on her face over his reluctance. "Is the tough guy afraid of doctors, too?"

Becker only gave her a sarcastic glare, and offered his broken hand. After getting a closer look at the swollen, discolored appendage, she glanced up, wincing sympathetically before she went to work on it. The girl was a gentle soul, but she knew when a situation required force. She did at least give him some warning before popping the displaced bones of his wrist back into place so that he could remove the band that held his sidearm to his leg and clench it between his teeth. Screaming in pain would not have been the ideal when one was attempting to remain hidden for the moment. The simplistic procedure provided a surprising amount of relief given that there were likely countless fractures throughout the numerous small bones, as well as their being out of joint. She proceeded to tightly bind his hand, wrist and part of his forearm with one long strip of white bandage. The damaged tissue throbbed against the pressure of the wrapping, but he knew that she just had probably saved his hand.

He curtly thanked her, but she insisted that she wasn't through with him yet. There was still his bullet wound to be seen to, which he argued was a minor flesh wound and not worth wasting the time sticking a plaster upon it. Wisely, she pointed out that he'd no doubt leave a trail of blood if it wasn't seen to, which was probably the only thing she could have said to convince him to sit through several stitches rather than finding some heads to bash together.

With a final mournful look upon Sarah's pathetic form still obviously struggling with the pain of her injuries, Becker set his jaw and left the girls to fend for themselves. Abby would protect her friend, no doubt better than he had done. She had already returned to Sarah's side, holding her hand, comforting her, talking to her gently upon some subject Becker couldn't guess. And he knew that it would never be in his capabilities to lend such aide to another human being. It was beyond him to put others at such ease.

No, his skills resided elsewhere...

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**A/N: And now back to some violence? (I think…not sure yet)**


	3. Reunion

**Author's Note: This chapter is quite a bit shorter than the others, and I debated adding more before posting it. However, it landed on a nice breaking point (in my mind), so here it is.**

**Warning: The violence could be considered a bit more graphic than in previous chapters.

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Becker considered his options as he dragged the unconscious mercenary and his corpse friend to a cupboard and tucked them out of sight. Obviously, the key to this whole situation was whatever Weasel was forcing Connor to do, and stopping and freeing the young man was paramount.

However, given that he was entirely in the dark about the nutter's resources and their positions, a little assistance would probably be advisable. Perhaps, finding either some of his men or Danny Quinn should be his primary goal. But for that matter, where were any of the ARC employees being held?

_Well, that settles that, _Becker concluded as he checked the hall and began to make his way across the complex to the surveillance room. By his figuring, he'd probably have about another 12 or so minutes until the incapacitated mercenaries were discovered MIA, given a 30 minute check-in protocol. It was more likely hourly, or none at all, considering the disorganized nature of the man in charge, but Becker had no desire to underestimate the enemy.

He needed to accomplish as much as possible while he still held the element of surprise. However, that would entail knowing Weasel's motivation, goals. And unfortunately, Becker just didn't know how these psychopaths worked. Straight up battle, nations' petty bickering, corporations' much more serious entanglements, and warlords after money, drugs, and blood-He'd seen it all, understood their ceaseless avarice, their callous motives. But people like Helen Cutter, and this new crazy, he couldn't anticipate their intentions, fathom their twisted logic. And such a dearth on his part had compromised the ARC's security.

_Damn._

Two mercenaries were guarding the door of the security station. But to what end? Had they deemed surveillance vital enough to merit guard, someone should've already raised an alarm about what they had seen pass in the core of the ARC-namely his incapacitating two of their men.

If anything, this development meant there was even less time to waste dwelling on useless questions. They may already know he was free, but that didn't mean they knew where he was. Thus far, he had been lucky. But as his old CO used to say, Never rely on luck.

Never rely on luck, but don't take it for granted when it graces you, either.

In other words, don't waste opportunities.

Becker took stock of his situation. Discharging firearms was always a noisy affair, especially if one did not have appropriate measures such as a silencer on their person. And attention was definitely not what he desired...at this juncture, anyway.

He hazarded another quick glance around the corner, fixing the positions and stances of the mercenaries in his mind. Fortunately, they were but a few meters from where he remained hidden around a bend in the labyrinthine innards of the ARC.

If events proceeded in a similar fashion, he'd owe Lady Luck a little something extra.

Getting a solid grip on his knife, Becker gritted his teeth. This was never pleasant, always messy, and impossible to fully prepare oneself mentally to carry out.

But it had to be done.

He sprinted around the corner and down the hall faster than he thought himself capable, only slowing when his weight slammed into the far guard, his raised blade having efficiently sliced the closer's throat as he passed. They were both knocked to the ground, but having expected the result, Becker recovered more quickly, kicking his shocked opponent in the head and hearing that distinctive snap that informed the man would never be his problem again.

The realization came too late, that lying on his back in a slick pool of blood driven to rapid expansion by the last futile pumps of a dead man's heart, lying directly in front of a closed door with who knew what behind it, was probably tactically unwise.

The doorknob turned.

The knife handle squished in his tightened grip, viscous red fluid oozing between his fingers.

The door opened, revealing...

An unfriendly. Becker slashed the man's Achilles' tendon, collapsing the thrashing, surprised bulk of mercenary directly on top of himself. Not the most pleasant manner to achieve the goal, but it made covering the man's mouth, stifling the agonizing screams much easier. As did it make holding the mercenary still and exposed for the split-second required to plunge his blade square into the man's chest, through the dense muscle and tissue between the ribs to skewer the heart.

Pulling it out released a tiny font of blood that further drenched Becker with the iron-stench of gore. But he wasn't about to leave a good tool behind. Most people tended to think the outcomes of skirmishes such as these were all in the skills of the participants. They failed to realize, it's also in the tools.

After verifying there were no other hostiles running to investigate the commotion, he rolled the expired mercenary off from him, and tried to find a clean spot on his black fatigues with which to clean his knife.

Take care of your weapons, and they'll take care of you.

A few steps into the surveillance room, he stopped, a bemused look upon his face.

"Quinn?"

Quickly, he freed the man from the chair to which he was bound, almost immediately regretting removing the gag first.

"Becker, what took you so damn long?" the leader of the primary ARC team sniped sarcastically. "It's been what? fifteen minutes since you took out those bastards. Getting soft, soldier boy?"

"And what have you been doing, besides sitting around and letting others get on with the work?" Becker replied none to harshly, knowing that the former copper's coping mechanism for stressful situations resided in his humor.

"I was keeping them distracted while you made your move," Danny answered, rubbing his wrists where the restraints had bit into the skin, leaving ugly red welts.

"Hence the gag," Becker supplied, smirking over the thought of Danny driving the mercenaries mad with chatter.

"Got a plan?" he asked, his eyes twinkling in that characteristic scheming way that generally meant Becker's job was about to become far more difficult.

"Whatever Weasel's-"

"Weasel?" Danny interrupted.

"Yeah, the brains, looks rather Mustelid, you know beady, shifty eyes..." Becker explained.

"Yeah, he does, rather."

"At any rate," Becker continued, shaking off the strange banal turn of the conversation. "He's having Connor build something."

"So basically, stop this /Weasel/ from having Connor complete said mystery doomsday device, free the others, drinks, back to fighting dinosaurs," Danny summed up.

"That's the idea." Becker replied

"Distraction," Danny offered.

"Yup," Becker agreed.

"Right," Danny continued. "Connor's being held in his lab here."

He pointed to one of the screens in which Becker could barely make out Connor, Weasel and a couple of large dark figures that were mercenaries amongst the plethora of what looked like random junk.

"The others are in two groups. Your men are being held in the locker room here, the scientists and civilians are in the canteen."

"An explosion in the garage would pull their attention away from all those areas," Becker observed. "Might buy one of us the time we need to free some of the others."

"Connor and this device should be our priority," Danny said.

"Agreed," Becker said, moving to take up position by the open door. "We need to shift. They're bound to be onto us."

"Most of the ARC's clear, except for the areas where the hostages are," Danny announced after scanning the various surveillance monitors.

"Hall's clear." Becker recovered a SIG from the body of one of the mercenaries, handing it to his teammate.

"Shouldn't we...?" Danny trailed off as he stepped over the bodies in the near-artistically crimson-painted hall.

"There's no point. If they don't already know we're free, they'll soon find out. And unless you've got a mop handy, that blood's not going anywhere," Becker said.

He received a look he had never expected from Danny. The others, yes, definitely. But this man was supposed to be hard. They always harassed him for always wearing black, questioned him as to why. And he always said nothing. This was why. The blood. Often, he had to do things, unpleasant things. It was messy. Blood had a way of getting everywhere, soaking into everything, reeking, staining. White wasn't the color for purity. With black, one never looked dirty.

"You've got some blood on your hand," Danny observed flatly.

Becker looked at his bandaged arm. The white dressing Abby had wrapped it in was soaked near its entirety in red. He was suddenly very aware of spatter sticking on his face, but didn't dare wipe it away, for both his hands had been drenched in a generous amount themselves.

"I know," he said.

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**A/N: I do enjoy violence, so there will be more, but I'm afraid that it is not quite my strength in writing…**


	4. Distraction

**Author's Note: For those actually following this, sorry the update took so long. I started jumping around, as I tend to do when writing. Good news is that means the next chapter should be up relatively soon.**

**Warning: Actually, the violence isn't all that graphic this time round.

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With a brief bout of... _discussion_, they had settled that Becker would be the one to provide the distraction while Danny liberated Connor from his forced labours of the undoubtedly doomsday variety. The surveillance equipment had been left purposefully in tact in the hopes that the soldier could make himself visible enough to lure as many mercenaries away from the target as possible, whilst Danny found his way through the ventilation system and maintenance corridors.

The ARC had its own system setup for refueling its small army of vehicles, but Becker had to yield to the undeniable fact that Lester would most definitely not appreciate the wanton destruction of the entirety of their petrol reserves. And feigning ignorance to the fact later on would not save him the reaming he would no doubt receive.

Still, it was tempting, if just to spite the acerbic man. However, blowing up thousand-litre underground drums would probably be a bit overkill, anyway. Namely because he'd get himself and everyone else in the building killed, which while achieving the goal of neutralizing the hostiles, was decidedly not the preferred manner in which to go about it.

Now the vehicles themselves...one or two could be considered acceptable losses under the circumstances, even to a bureaucrat.

He rummaged around to find appropriate tools for his endeavour, which didn't take long. Really, the state of the place was shameful. Half-used, dirty rags lay about everywhere. There were more tools strewn about the cement floor and cluttering the tops of workbenches than there were in the toolboxes themselves, which had been left open, disgorging their contents into the mess. True, they had probably been abandoned in haste upon the invasion of the ARC, but how the mechanics, technicians or whoever were able to work in such an environment...

Tentatively, he sniffed an open jar of clear liquid. Turpentine. Excellent. Glass jars, some more petrol, oil-covered rags...

Brilliant.

Perhaps, it was the little boy with a taste for destruction that he had never quite outgrown, but the soldier couldn't help but smile as he anticipated the spectacular devastation to come.

-

Just because he had been severely trained for combat, had experienced more active missions than someone of his limited years should be able to claim, did not mean that he did not suffer a bout of nervousness while lying in wait for a confrontation. It just meant he knew how not to let it get the best of him.

He rolled the lighter over and over in his hand.

The door was of the heavy metal variety that no matter its age, squeaked something awful upon its hinges, oiled or otherwise. Very handy warning system.

Apparently, he had done an efficient job of luring the mercenaries away. A decent number passed cautiously through the whining door into the vast, seemingly empty space. Six...not a bad catch. Hopefully enough to grant Quinn an advantage. Perhaps more would be drawn away in the next few minutes...

However, this wasn't the time to worry about things out of his control. He needed to focus upon the job at hand. Or lighter, as it were.

With a deft flick of his thumb he produced a tiny flame more than sufficient enough to ignite the drenched rage tucked expertly into the petrol-filled glass bottle. He hurled it at the side of one of the SUVs he had selected for sacrificing to his cause (Lester's grumbling would be minimal considering that he had prepped the two that were in need of much repair-mangled by angry dinosaurs).

Molotov Cocktails were a classic for a reason.

His aim only had to be marginally accurate, which allowed him to keep from exposing himself to gunfire or discovery. Even if the nature of the IED wasn't to explode into a ball of flammable liquid, coating every nearby surface in fire, he had doused the exterior of the vehicle in a most effective mix of accelerants.

The hiss of air being sucked towards the site of combustion was most satisfying.

More so was how the mercenaries flinched upon the initial impact of shattering glass and spattering flame. But they had seemed to relax somewhat, fanning out to scan the area for the source of the petrol bomb, or any other accomplices. Becker noted to watch out for the ones clever (or experienced) enough to give the burning SUV a wide berth.

The paint crackled as it was scorched.

The formerly stagnate air became hot.

And if his sense of timing was accurate, the drenched rag protruding from the tank should just about be catching...

Becker stood, lobbed the other Molotov Cocktail at the second vehicle he had prepped for sacrifice.

The mercenaries saw him and raised their weapons, taking a smidge too long to aim, for the first vehicle exploded with a deafening crack, startling from their task.

However enjoyable witnessing the aftermath of the destruction he had caused would be, Becker opted to run for the far door before the mercenaries regained their senses enough to execute their initial plan of shooting him dead.

He did allow himself the briefest of glances as he passed through the door. Two of the less wary men had been taken out by the explosion. One was at least incapacitated, if not outright killed, as he was thrown by the percussion of the blast. Another man was screaming as a couple others attempted to find something not doused in flammable liquid with which to put the engulfed man out.

The remaining three were quickly advancing on his position.

Becker made a strategic withdrawal.

-

He made it about halfway back towards the heart of the ARC before the second explosion shook the building. There hadn't been the time to check the levels in the tanks, but apparently there had been more than sufficient amounts for his purposes.

The self-satisfied smirk fell from his face as he rounded a corner and ran into a wall of not only muscular but mean looking men touting firearms that were perhaps even more menacing than their wielders. Footsteps approached from behind him, hard, purposeful, smug... He was surrounded.

Probability calculations had never been his strong suit, but Becker did the math faster than a dedicated geek could've managed.

If he were to put up a fight, he'd manage no more than 2 minutes 34 seconds at the maximum. And the pleasure of knowing that there was a 67.3% likelihood he would take out at least three of the hostiles, there was a 99.99% certainty he'd wind up dead. And dead was not useful. Especially if it only bought Quinn an extra 2 or so minutes.

No, even Lester would have to admit that his life was worth more than 2 minutes 34 seconds. Not to mention that more time would be bought by the hostiles' attempts to discern what his rebellious plans had been.

He threw his hands passively into the air.

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**A/N: My favourite, tasty bit coming up next…**


	5. Torture

**Author's Note: Oh, lord, I am a horrible person…**

**Warning: Contains scenes not recommended for sensitive readers… (but if you've made it this far…) Plus coarse language.

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This was new...but a novelty he had rather not add to his repertoire of experiences. It was not the same sort of pain as being shot or stabbed, punched or bludgeoned, or any of the standard sources of trauma to which he had unfortunately grown accustomed. At first, his body hadn't even identified it as pain. It was only after an indeterminate amount of time, when the nerve endings had begun to fry, the electrical current overwhelming their delicate capacity, that it had hurt.

It was an all-encompassing sort of pain. There was no focus of the assault. The current no doubt followed a specific path, but it burned just everywhere, in every cell, in every fiber. And the worst part was that it caused every muscle in his body to contract, a far greater pain than the nerve fibers burning out. Whenever they stopped the current, he found himself gasping for breath with a stunned diaphragm and had to fight to keep from pissing himself.

"Where did Mr. Quinn take Temple and the Device?"

How many times had he heard this question? It had become difficult to keep count after the first dozen. Perhaps because it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate...

_Oh yeah! Turn it up higher!_

That dial was one of the only sharp images in the room. Honestly, he couldn't quite recall where he was. Sadist's Little Buddy's hand cranked the dial to the right a haphazard amount. No scientific method there. Quite the resourceful little bugger he was, though, throwing together a setup in a matter of minutes that could fry the brains from an Elephant without much hassle. He supposed he was lucky that the man had such plentiful resources that the ARC could provide, lest he'd be wearing rusty wires in unpleasant places rather than nice gel-back electrodes at his collar bone and ankle. However, they had already begun to burn his skin, unable to handle the 'non-advisable' level of current.

And the dousing in water had not been pleasant either, nor necessary, really. As if being drenched on the outside would increase the conductivity of his insides.

Sadist's Little Buddy (for he was certainly a kindred spirit to the mercenary Becker had incapacitated earlier) moved his hand to the switch. Becker set his teeth. It really was a matter of being ridiculously stubborn, rather than any degree of toughness. The more they tried to break him, the more he'd rather die first. In actuality he didn't want to die for something so trivial, but pride had a way taking over one and-

Becker grunted, shaking off the haze in his head. Sadist's Little Buddy had slapped him in an oddly gentle fashion on the cheek. He must have lost consciousness during the last round of Zappy Hour.

"Where are Mr. Quinn and Mr. Temple?"

The voice was a familiar one. Becker blinked his eyes, then narrowed them in recognition. _Weasel! _

The captive soldier's mouth had filled with blood, for he had bitten through the edge of his tongue and part of his cheek during that last bout of electrocution, as well as losing consciousness near the end there. At least his heart refused to stop beating...

He spit the mouthful of blood in Weasel's face. And smirked.

The little man became blatantly infuriated, almost the literal image of 'hopping mad.' Rather cartoonish really. Just needed steam shooting out his ears.

_Focus, dammit!_

Then again, a wandering mind appeared to be what had kept him from breaking thus far. Quinn was taking his damn time formulating and executing the next part of whatever plan they hadn't plotted ahead of time. Or perhaps, time just dragged on when one was being used as an example of 'materials besides metal which possess conductivity. Notice how pitiful a conductor a soldier makes, how much current splices off. Better turn up the juice.'

"Make him talk!" Weasel bellowed, before loud agitated footsteps indicated his departure from the room. So, so much anger in such a little man.

The lull in experiencing excruciating pain allowed his more minor complaints of the flesh to announce themselves once more. His damaged wrist throbbed in a particularly dissatisfied manner. Being wrapped in a length of cord, and the sole bearer of his weight, besides its fellow, was probably more than a slight factor. They could've at least strapped him to a chair, like proper soldiers would've done. They were a dying breed, they were.

They'd sit you down for a nice chat, maybe a cup of tea. You wouldn't try to escape just yet because you knew there were any number of guards within a distance that didn't make marksmanship a factor in your certain death. Besides, why waste a good cup of tea? Or some scotch. The good ones always had some scotch on hand. And then they'd calmly lay out the situation for you, the torture and horrific death was implied but never illuminated in gruesome detail, which in many ways was far more terrifying, letting your imagination do the heavy lifting. And then you'd be given a few minutes to logically consider your options: cooperate or die. Well, in fact, the length of time you were given depended on how quickly you could down your complimentary refreshment. True, he himself had never experienced such luxurious treatment as Cold War spies seemed to merit, but if the situation were reversed, he'd still bloody well give the bastard a chair!

_Damn_, he had gone completely daft. His mind was wandering wildly in a futile attempt at escaping his body.

Oh, and out came the knife. No, now that was just uncalled for. They were going to cut him with his own blade? The irony almost smarted as much as he knew the razor sharp edge would.

_Fuck! _

This man knew what he was doing, not in the sense of achieving his supposed goal of gleaning information. Any interrogator worth his salt knew that the threat of pain was far more effective than the actual inflicting of pain. Jumping directly to the physical torture just encouraged a stubborn bastard to be more reticent.

This man knew how to inflict pain. He probably considered it an art form.

He knew that the nerves were all in the outside layers of a person, the majority residing in and just under the skin. So rather than cut or stab, Sadist's Little Buddy flayed.

The first cut barely smarted. Then the blade slipped easily under Becker's skin, just to the left of his sternum at about the 8th rib. It slid down his abdomen slicing through tissue, severing nerves that screamed their demises. And all the while, cold, deft hands tugged the two-inch strip of flesh away from its core, like peeling a banana that refused to yield its skin.

Becker tried to swallow, choking on his pain. His body instinctively writhed away from the source of agony, but could not escape. He allowed his mind to flee instead.

When he got home, he was going to get so pissed that he couldn't feel a damn thing. And then he was going to sleep off the hurt, both from being tortured and from the massive hangover, even if it took a week. A nice, cold beer. A nice, hot shower. And some wondrous oblivion.

"Has he talked?"

The feeling of cold steel against his muscle disappeared. This was an unfamiliar voice. But one with the tone of authority. If it was a highly trained military unit that had invaded the ARC, then this was the CO.

It took a bit of concentration, but Becker managed to focus on the newcomer. Now this man was actually intimidating. Everything about him screamed 'forged from molten rock'. The hard line of his jaw, the dense look of his build, not bulky or extremely muscular...just powerful and sinewy. One would probably be better off bludgeoned by a steel girder than struck by this man's fist. And possibly the most intimidating aspect was the lack of scars. Scars were generally a good measure of toughness, representing someone who had survived many, many fights. But this man had inarguably been in just as a profuse number of conflicts, but bore little evidence of them. Simply, he was better than the majority of opponents he had encountered. He was near impossible to take out.

"He's close to breaking," Sadist's Little Helper announced, sounding more like a child requesting five more minutes playtime than a confident interrogator presenting his assessment.

The commander of the mercenaries caught Becker's gaze with eyes as hard as diamonds, ones that cut through the ARC soldier more efficiently than his razor-edged combat knife was being employed to do.

"No. He's not."

Sadist's Little Buddy looked disappointed.

"But I know what _will _break him," he said, turning his back, and adding with a dismissive wave of his hand, " Do carry on, if you like..."

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**A/N: Probably a bit OOC, but to me, Becker seems to have a sardonic edge. The going slightly insane/dark humor aspect was just how this ended up as I wrote it. Not that there isn't a way to keep them in character for such a scene. Don't ask me why this subgenre fascinates me (or why I find abusing characters so very appealing). And yes, you can call me a sadistic freak.**

**A/N: Don't worry too much, if Becker's a good little boy, and takes all of my abuse, he might receive some comforting. I think he at least has earned a hug at this point.**


	6. Broken

**Author's Note: I may have gone too far…**

**Warning: Graphic Violence. Emotional Angst. *Someone pointed out that this definitely merits an 'M' rating at this point. And I'd have to agree. Just a heads up that I will be switching this to a higher rating. Thus it may be more difficult to find.*  
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Sadist's Little Buddy had only made the primary incision to start removing the second strip of flesh from his torso, when the commanding mercenary returned. Becker had almost expected the unsavory little man to keep the seven inch strip of skin as a trophy (maybe a decorative bracelet or coin purse) but he had simply tossed it aside to stick to the lino floor like a piece of wet cardboard. Obviously a 'live in the moment' type of person.

"Play time's over," the hard man announced with a firm edge that made Sadist's Little Buddy instantly remove the knife from Becker's skin and step away. It was not enough, however, to prevent the subordinate from pouting. Becker couldn't help but feel satisfied over that fact, and not just for the cessation in severe, burning pain directed to his person.

However, the strung-up soldier's numb musings turned entirely cold, as behind the CO, a familiar face appeared, and was shoved forward by a much larger, meaner one of yet another mercenary. One of his men, Davey Morgan, was forced to his knees a few feet before where Becker stood hanging, bleeding, suffering.

And the dread born of the young man's appearance was far worse than any physical pain he had yet suffered. It was watching Weasel point a gun to Sarah's head all over again. But wait, the agitated nutter had said 'no murder.' Becker had heard that order with his own two ears. No matter how fuzzy events in his memory had become since he'd been placed in that room, Becker was certain in that fact.

"You know what I'm going to ask," CO With The Rock Heart addressed Becker. "And you know what's going to happen if you don't provide the answer that will please my employer."

The ARC captain said nothing, only held the head mercenary's piercing, frigid gaze, hoping that he appeared an iota as tough as his adversary undeniably was.

An adversary who did not lie.

_Oh, god._

"I hope for his sake..." He gestured to the man on his knees, hands tied behind his back, the soldier that looked to his commanding officer. "...You'll reconsider your previous stance in this matter."

Becker did not look at Morgan It was wholly cowardly, but he could not. He could not look at someone he was responsible for, someone who was about to be executed on account of his actions, and still stand firm. And he had to stand firm. If this rock-hearted bastard was willing to take lives for such (in the grand scheme of things) trivial, unimportant information, then in all likelihood, they were all dead if the one bargaining chip Becker held was forfeited.

"Where are Mr. Quinn, Mr. Temple, and the device?"

"I can't tell you that." His own voice startled him. It was unrecognizably raspy, from vocal cords hoarse with disuse and tightened by pain.

_Man up, Becker._

He had responsibilities. Decisions such as these fell to him, and with them, the immense burden of the consequences.

He looked at Davey Morgan. Twenty-four years of age. Single. Sends flowers to his house-ridden grandmother every week. Two pints and he gets tipsy. Four and the most ridiculous jokes pass his lips, the most genuine of grins lighting his face. Seven and he's vomiting in the loo. Best day- getting close enough to a baby brachiosaurus to pet it like a puppy. Worst day- losing track of a pack of raptors when he was meant to hold his ground. Strike that. Worst day- the ARC being invaded, being captured, dragged into a room and forced to his knees before his captain, a man he knows and respects, who refuses to save his life by uttering a few simple words.

Becker expected hatred, fear. But what he found tore at his heart far more. Resignation. What kind of horrible bastard was he, that one of his men, whom he trained, honed, molded, could accept his death so readily, so easily? Dear lord, what had he done? More than anything he wanted to scream at Morgan to fight. _FIGHT! Fight you sorry fuck!_

Hate the bad guys, hate Becker himself, just want to live... Don't make this acceptable. Don't try to ease the conscience of the man who got you killed. _DAMN IT!_

"Honour, sir."

The words cut like a knife, more so than the deafening shot that followed, ringing lingering in his ears. More so than the sight of young Davey Morgan's brains' being blown from his skull in a mixture of fine spray, spatter of soft tissue and chunks of bone. More so than the image of his lifeless body hitting the blood-soaked lino floor.

…

Change of tactic.

The soldier had been resigned, which apparently did not garner Becker's sympathy enough to break him. Little did they know how very broken he was inside...but he would not give them the pleasure. He was a bastard. And he was going to hell. But he would not give them the pleasure of being victorious over him.

They would test him again, try a different catalyst.

A civilian, a scientist-type. A woman.

Her name was Cynthia. And she had a lovely smile. Well, she had a lovely smile when he had flirted with her Tuesday last.

Presently, she was sobbing uncontrollably, mascara running in dark rivulets down her pale cheeks. They dropped her into the precise spot Morgan had been forced to his knees. She collapsed into the pool of blood beside his untouched corpse. They had not bothered to clean up. They wanted to terrify her, to make her fear, anxiety, and any other number of emotions flowing out of her all the more poignant, to tear Becker's insides apart until his mouth spoke of its own accord.

Agonizingly, he was too self-disciplined for such a slip. How he longed for the excuse, how he hated himself for not allowing it to occur. Why couldn't he just cave like a normal human being, one whom still possessed a soul?

Because, if they were willing to execute innocent people, then what horrific master plan was their final goal? How many would ultimately die?

She begged, she pleaded. They asked him the question. His tongue was like lead in his accursed mouth. When the gun was placed at her temple, she screamed for him to save her before her brains joined those of Davey Morgan in a spectacular display upon the opposite wall.

"This isn't working," the CO Forged of Steel said flatly.

Becker was a million miles away. He was drowning in a dark abyss. He was suffocating under the heaviest, most oppressive mountain. He was in the underworld. He was in purgatory. He was not alive. But neither was he dead.

And yet somehow he heard the voice. The voice he would strangle from the man's throat with his bare hands.

"We simply haven't found the correct leverage yet," Weasel announced, stepping out from the shadowed recesses of the room. He appeared much calmer, much more like the sly creature for which Becker had dubbed him. The problem with a looney like that, you never knew which face would appear next. Currently, he seemed to be adorning that of Detached Sociopath. "The women he freed earlier, killed for, tucked away. Find them."

"You're certain you want to waste more time with this?" Rock-Heart queried.

"Without the Differentiator, my task is going to be near impossible," Weasel snapped. Running a hand over his shiny hair, he composed himself. "Recover Ms. Maitland and Dr. Page. Get the information from Captain Becker. In the meantime, I'll need two of your men to escort the primary device to the roof."

The room emptied, but Becker did not notice, the coldness in his soul was too profound. His mouth was dry, his stomach a knot, and his chest felt so constricted that he found himself gasping for air, unable to breathe. Soon, it felt as if he were drowning, his lungs on fire, his diaphragm paralyzed.

Sadist's Little Buddy, the only one who remained to babysit the shell-shocked ARC soldier, came to his rescue, cutting his hands free, allowing him to collapse to the floor, sucking in great lungfuls of air.

It was a mistake.

Somehow his soldier's instinct took control, or perhaps it was a bit of his rage turning outward, but Becker downed Sadist's Little Buddy with a sweep of his leg, and wrestled him about until he had him in a stranglehold between his thighs-not trusting arms rendered weak from being trussed above his head for so long. He snapped the mercenary's neck before proceeding to vomit the entire contents of his stomach onto the lino between the disembodied strip of his skin and the two people he had allowed to be murdered.

He continued to heave until there was no longer even enough bile to be expelled, and then longer still, until he collapsed onto his back and fought not to hyperventilate or pick up his knife and plunge it into his own chest, piercing his black heart.

He had truly deserved to be flayed alive. Never had he thought himself capable of actions that would merit such cruel justice, but most apparently he was not in fact one of the 'good guys.' Coldly, he had calculated the potential consequences, weighed their lives against the many that would be lost if Weasel and his cohorts were permitted to unleash their evil scheme upon the world, and sacrificed the two innocents to the 'greater good.' He deserved to suffer. And he deserved to die.

Davey and Cynthia had not.

He had done nothing to save their lives. And any reason he had come up with at the time he abandoned them to death would never be enough to ease his conscience. Nor did he deserve such indulgence. He owed them.

He would see they did not die in vain.

He would carry their blood on his hands until the day he died and was judged.

Never would he forget what he had done.

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**A/N: I'd like to say this doesn't seem right, that Becker's not the type to allow people to die, but he did want to shut the anomaly on Danny Quinn to prevent any more giganotosaurus from coming through… I feel like as a soldier (and leader of a military unit), he should have the capability to make cold, calculated life and death decisions, even if he doesn't like it. Still seems wrong, though (despite my love of emotional angst). Opinions?**

**A/N 2: The way Becker took down Sadist's Little Buddy was a nod to 24-an oddly common method employed by Jack Bauer (generally because he's oft tied up and being tortured).**


	7. Apex

**Author's Note: Many, many apologies for taking this long to post an update! It's longer (and has some climactic stuff), if that counts for anything? Probably could use much more editing/polishing, but I think I am just sick of being stuck on this chapter, so... enjoy?  


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His body automatically attempted to render itself as small as possible. Curled up on his side, Becker briefly wondered at the origins of the instinct to revert to the fetal position when in severe pain. Why was it supposedly so comforting?

The benefits were utterly lost upon the abused soldier.

There was only agony.

Yes, it was about time to call it a day...a week, a month, a year, an existence. Never before had he so badly wanted to quit in his life. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't just a desire. It was a physical need, the only outcome possible given present circumstances. He simply had no choice in the matter. His body could not go on. And he was rather doubtful about his mind, as well as his soul (if he ever possessed one in the first place).

And then that bastard started whispering, shouting. How Becker despised _him_! And how _he_ loathed Becker, always pushing, always criticizing. That damn voice that appeared when he wanted its presence the least, when he just wanted a moment's peace, to crawl into a dark corner and die.

It wouldn't let him.

This time it didn't point out all of his failings, his faults. Unfortunate. That would've probably driven him into that black corner to reside there for the rest of eternity.

No, it whispered just one thing, the only thing that could stir him from the abyss.

_The girls._

They would be found, if they hadn't been discovered already. They would be dragged into the disgusting, gruesome room, just like Davey and Cynthia before them. They would be tortured and then executed while Becker was forced to watch.

No. That was untrue.

He'd break. He'd break for them. And that made him by far a worse person. No moral high ground for the likes of him, when closer acquaintances_-friends_- could sway him while others' lives did not merit enough to part his lips.

_Get up, you bastard._

Time to accept the horrible person that he was and get on with it.

Slowly he levered himself to his feet, not quite straightening completely, unsure whether he'd ever be able to rise to his full height again. His stomach was a burning mess of knotted muscle and stinging, gaping wound.

He found his shirt, folded neatly atop his boots with socks tucked in. Add obsessive-compulsive disorder to the late Sadist's Little Buddy's list of mental defects.

Becker dressed hastily, feeling somewhat more complete in the garb that had become like second skin to him over the years.

If he were to spare Abby and Sarah, he had to be gone. There was no guarantee, besides that he had killed the obviously insane mercenary, that they would not be harmed despite his absence, or because of it. However, that rock-heart son of a bitch was blatantly driven by a cold sort of logic, so he wouldn't waste time torturing the women barring any tangible result.

Convincing himself that it was the best decision, and shoving aside the doubt and concern for their safety, Becker fled the room within which his soul would forever be trapped, shoving down all the self-loathing and agony into the deepest recess he could find.

This crisis was not over yet. But if he had anything to do with it, it would be very soon...

The roof was where the device was being taken. So that's where Becker went. Might as well see what this whole hullabaloo was fucking about, since he had sacrificed blood, bile, flesh, and parts of his conscience for its completion.

He opted for the ventilation shafts, easily finding an unguarded point of entry and climbing with more difficulty than which he'd ever thought he'd be prone. Not thinking to bring proper mechanical disabling devices, he employed his not-so-beloved-anymore combat knife to unscrew the grating keeping him precariously pinned within the vent rather than kicking mercenary ass upon the roof.

From his hiding place, he could see them, off to the side, standing around what was blatantly a creation of the mind of Connor Temple; an odd conglomeration of random everyday objects, strangled by wires and electrical tape. It even boasted some sort of array...so very sci-fi geek, Becker wasn't sure it hadn't built by some nerds in their parents' garage.

The innocuous banality of it, however, was not enough to fool the ARC soldier, who had witnessed some of the more severe aspects of the young scientist's machinations. Perhaps he did not look the part, or act it, but Connor Temple possessed substantial genius that could no doubt be applied to deleterious designs on the global scale. And there was a menacing edge to that device that put Becker at considerable unease.

Then again it could just be the price paid for its construction.

He shoved down the memories and thoughts that would only take him to a bad, debilitating place. Instead, he evaluated the scenario laid out before him upon the stark cement roof of the ARC. Two mercenaries. One device. One shifty-eyed Weasel.

Easy enough to handle. He just needed to-

The door opened, and another joined the party of hostiles on the roof, perhaps the only individual that would make Becker hesitate. That damn tough-as-nails, rock-hearted leader of the mercenaries. The only one who would be the ARC soldier's match were he in full physical health. In his present condition, strategy needed to be re-evaluated.

And wait. _Was that...?_

A flash of movement across the roof, barely noticeable, hidden behind some architectural structure or another that really served no functional purpose. At least the structural frivolity was currently providing some use, for Becker recognized in that brief glimpse Danny Quinn and Connor Temple.

Anger and grief momentarily choked him. He could have told the bad guys precisely where they had agreed Quinn would stash Temple and the device, and the mercenaries would've come up empty handed. He could have spared innocent people's lives. It was somewhat difficult to convince himself that Weasel would've snapped entirely into homicidal rage, killing many more in an attempt to glean information that Becker simply would not have possessed, had things played out in such a manner.

But he tried to believe things had turned out for the best, squashing down his damn emotional frailty once more.

If he felt like he needed to atone for the deaths he had caused, this was a good a chance as any for some severe suffering on his part. Maybe he'd even get killed. Sincerely, that was not his goal in this endeavour, but if it were the outcome, so be it.

He only wished he were closer to the figures milling about what seemed like a vast expanse of concrete away, for there was no way he could traverse the distance in anywhere near as good a time as normal.

Accepting his current maddening condition was necessary were he to take on these bastards with only his combat knife of dubious loyalty. He really should've made a stop at the armoury, even in the slim chance of acquiring a firearm... or some body armour-yeah, that would've probably been nice. There simply hadn't been the time, and judging by the way Weasel was fidgeting about with _the device_, time was running out for everyone.

If he threw his knife, burying it into one of the mercenaries' chests, he'd no longer have it. However, if he _didn't _dispatch the blade, the likelihood he'd be shot dead relatively quickly after making his move was absolute.

The best bet would be to wait for the unlikely event of all four persons simultaneously turning their backs to him and sneak up behind them, stab one through the heart (or cut his throat) and use him as a human shield against the others.

Becker could wing it, but plans were so much lovelier; easier to execute in the long run and much, much less likely to get you killed. Yes, he had done a rather sloppy job of it today. And at this point, there was nothing else for it but jumping in head first.

The heavens aligned.

He really didn't deserve such goddamn good luck, but he'd contemplate the purveyors of his fate at a later time. They did not pity a fool who would squander such a gift.

Danny Quinn, idiot he may be for keeping Temple on the premises, was at least smart enough to bring along some friends-the best kind, of the Beretta and SIG Sauer variety to judge by the efficiency in which the ex-copper's bullets brought down the mercenary. The unfortunate man must have royally pissed off the fates (God, gods, _whomever_), to have not only been born such an ugly bastard but to die such a pointless death.

Well, his death did serve a purpose of sorts, even if it only benefited the 'opposing' side to the mercenary's, in that it provided enough distraction for those not wanting to become Danny Quinn' next victim to allow Becker to extricate himself from the air duct. The screaming agony that was his body at the moment was brutally squelched by shear force of will in favor of more pressing matters.

His only focus was the neutralization of the hostiles.

_Chop the head off the snake... _was generally held to be apt advice in situations such as these. However, Becker opted to tackle neither the Stone-Hearted CO who was deftly returning Quinn's hail of bullets, pinning the ARC team members down where they had first acquired cover, or the shifty, criminally insane blighter who was crouching behind the Doomsday device, continuing to fiddle with what appeared to be a laptop built into the magpie's nest of tech. Instead, he took out the slightly more vulnerable mercenary (better to work one's way up to the main event-and maybe buy Quinn time to take out the mercenary of steel for Becker's very beaten-down sake), knocking the smaller man to the hard concrete of the roof and wrestling the SA80 out of his hands. A quick smack to the head with the butt of the assault rifle effectively neutralized the man.

Physically, Weasel was not much of a threat, so Becker's next target would be-

_SHIT!_

The strike caused him to stagger back, trying to recover from the dizzying blow. He had barely managed to rise to his feet, let alone acquire his target, only to realize (apparently at the precise moment as Stone-Hearted Bastard) that they had inadvertently ended up practically on top of one another through their separate struggles.

He had been faster than Becker.

And Becker's jaw felt the brunt of such depressing knowledge, which was fortunately not as severe as it could've been, for the man had been caught relatively off-guard, mitigating the force of his punch.

They were at too close a range for firearms to be effective. Both of the highly trained military men attempted to use them as blunt instruments to aid their close-quarters combat, but rather quickly they were knocked aside or wrenched free to fall to the wayside.

Becker managed to retain his SA80 a fraction longer, enhancing a blow to Rock-hearted Mercenary's gut with reinforced steel. Unfortunately, the man barely recoiled, maintaining the mind to grab the assault rifle, grapple with Becker briefly over it, head butt the soldier with his granite-like skull, and toss the weapon aside, coming back with a forceful fist, bolstered by the pendulum momentum of the movement.

Having survived being a soldier for this long, Becker at least possessed the ability to recoup expeditiously, and ducked the fist aimed at his face (which was by far more difficult an endeavour than the typical pub brawl punch that comes swinging from a mile away and could be evaded by a half-blind grandmother).

Momentum was a beautiful thing if you could use it to _your_ advantage.

A couple strategically placed hands and the much abused soldier sent his opponent staggering on his way.

It really wasn't fair.

The mercenary recovered his balance faster than any human had the right to do. He was simply better, stronger than Becker (at the moment). But the captain had reserves of stubbornness to the degree that probably qualified the trait as the eighth deadly sin.

He threw himself at his opponent. Sloppy, yet the only maneuver left to him. And aside from fatal injury and death, there was really no way to harm his flesh any further. The adrenalin and endorphins washing over him like a Tsunami had seen to any negative protestations of nerve endings.

A small victory, knocking the sturdy man to the ground. However, there was no clear winner as they grappled futilely, both men knowing all the moves and counter-moves and neither gaining a superior hold upon the other.

Just as his muscles threatened rebellion due to fatigue, and he felt his body growing weak despite his determined mind, Becker managed to gain the advantage.

One knee on his chest, the captain pinned the mercenary to the ground, and struck him multiple times in the face with his less than normally powerful-but hopefully effective enough-fist.

The success was fleeting, however, for the Hard-Eyed Bastard attained the leverage to flip Becker off from him, causing the soldier to land roughly on his back upon the concrete roof. Taking fistfuls of his shirt, the lethal man began to bash the back of Becker's head against the unyielding, cold cement.

The blue of the sky was oddly cheerful for such a shit sort of day. It's happy, care-free cotton wool clouds began to blur. Becker felt the urge to wretch but at this point it was a physical impossibility for his stomach to expel anything, since it was devoid of even the minutest drop of bile.

And then the severe rocking motion of the world ceased, leaving only a comparatively (but just as disorienting) spinning sensation behind.

Combat boots echoed across hard concrete, cutting through the blackness that threatened to claim Becker's consciousness. And behind the _clomp, clomp, clomp_ of hard-soled rubber was a muffled sort of disturbance. His addled brain could only conjure the capacity to focus on one piece of stimuli at the moment. And thankfully, it sensed which was the more threatening to Becker's survival, analyzing the _clomp, clomp, clomp _that seemed to be in slow motion.

The mercenary was walking away, while Becker still alive?

Walking away, turning his back...

Walking away from Becker towards...towards what?

Walking towards what?

A gun.

A gun to finish off the die-hard ARC captain.

_Move or Die!_

Through sheer force of will, Becker managed to urge his incapacitated body to respond, rolling over onto his stomach and compelling his eyes to locate the threat despite their objections against the still-fuzzy world.

It hadn't just been the fucked-up state of his muddled brain. Steel Mercenary _was _walking away in a sort of slow motion, favouring one leg over the other.

_Oh-ho!_

Had he the capacity and would it not alert his target and would-be executioner, Becker would've laughed. One of those random bouts of chuckling that overtakes one when things turn out surprisingly well, generally creditable to your own cleverness.

_Funny thing, knee injuries._

Torn ACLs are a life sentence, you know? They can put in as many staples and pins as will set off every metal detector within a hundred metres, but the joint will just never be the same, never as flexible, never as strong.

Vulnerable to future injury.

Half-stumbling, half-running, Becker came up behind the loathsome mercenary with what would soon prove to be a fatal old football injury.

He mustered his remaining strength, concentrating it into his right arm, and punched through the mercenary's gimp-knee aiming the focal point of its force far beyond the flesh and bone itself.

There was a satisfying 'pop' and crunch of tearing tissue as the limb took on a resemblance closer to a carpenter's square than the functional bipedal appendage, prior to the complete collapse of its owner with an agonized outcry.

The once seemingly invincible mercenary writhed about in pain.

_And what's that, dear beloved, Fate?_

His combat knife had been lost to him in the fray, only to appear just a few feet beyond the downed Goliath. Or would he be Achilles? _Arrogant wanker!_

The sun, the happy sun, glinted off the parts of its blade not crusted with blood. Poor, little knife had fallen into less doting hands. But he'd soon remedy the mistake.

Oh, how the blade sung to him, whispered devilish, gruesomely satisfying games to him! It winked repeatedly, sharing a dark secret, beckoning. Becker received the message.

The trusty companion was light in his grip, like a weight had been lifted. He forgave it the betrayal of being employed to flay flesh from his body. The knife forgave Becker all of his hesitancy in its use on prior occasions.

Presently, they were of one mind.

The bastards had broken the captain, just not in the way they had intended. He could no longer claim the moral high ground. Honour was no longer a trait he possessed. And he no longer cared.

What had being civilized done for him?

This man had _hurt _him, in so many ways. And Becker was going to hurt him back. More. The captain was going to win in a most glorious, epic way.

Time to do as the ancient Greeks did; Right by your friends and harm to your enemies.

The good life.

Holding the defeated mercenary down, Becker nicked the man's neck ever so slightly with the tip of his voracious combat knife, strategically opening the carotid artery. The adrenalin-fueled rapidity of his heartbeat would pump the bastard dry. Slow, but not as painful as the maniacally broken soldier would have wished.

The captain forced himself to look the dying man in the eyes as he began to panic, desperately clutching at the side of his neck, trying to stem the flood of red that flowed forth like a gruesome font. Eyes like steel, as hard as diamonds, finally appeared human. Yet Becker felt nothing.

He felt nothing.

What _had_ they done to him, he who suffered an avalanche of conscience over every human life he had ever taken (and they were always quick and merciful), even though they were righteous, in service of Queen and Country. Now an act of personal, vicious vengeance and he didn't feel a thing; satisfaction, remorse, pleasure, hatred. Not a thing.

What sort of monster was he?

Becker collapsed on his back, tossing the siren blade aside. The world was reduced to his breathing and the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

No rest for the wicked.

The snap back to reality was so sudden, Becker's brain felt as if it had whiplash. The extreme highs and lows he had suffered all day begged the question as to whether he were bipolar. But there wasn't time for that particular contemplation at the moment.

His new code for living encompassed grave harm to one's enemies, but it also mandated doing right by one's friends. And they needed him.

It was unclear whether it had been the mercenary Becker had initially took down in the roof melee or the one Quinn had put a couple of lead bullets into earlier.

Either way, he was a resilient bastard, for he was presently holding his own against Danny Quinn. A few feet away, Temple was wrestling over the bizarre conglomeration of tech with Weasel. It appeared as though he were winning, too. That was, until Weasel grabbed hold of the geek's leg, sending him crashing backwards onto the concrete roof. Becker's own skull could attest to the uninviting reception it gave.

The older, rougher leader of the ARC's primary team seemed to be handling things in his usual manner of getting the shit kicked out of him. But situations in which the man invariably emerged on top always appeared so. Connor Temple, on the other hand, was often a hopeless cause, well-intentioned though he was. How he had survived this job when several more capable people had not was beyond Becker's capacity to discern.

Perhaps, it was because the others had always come to the young genius' aide, that he was still alive. Perhaps, that was why they ultimately were not.

No matter.

Becker easily snuck up behind Weasel as the detestable little man pawed frantically at the laptop that was buried in the heart of Connor Temple's Ominous Doomsday Device. His arms, tired and weak as they'd become, were still more than ample to restrain the psychopath he pulled away from the now humming tech.

Proving that he was indeed _the_ master of timing, Danny Quinn appeared at his side, with a much-too-carefree smile for someone with a gash over one eye and a bloodied lip and knuckles.

Becker accepted the handcuffs Quinn dangled in offering, noting the unconscious but apparently still breathing mercenary behind him. And further beyond, the (finally) deceased body of the CO laying in a large reservoir of coagulating blood, trailed from a smaller pool where he had originally fallen. He had fought to live until the bitter end, crawling a few miserable metres before his strength failed him.

Death had been cruelly slow for the man, but doubtless justly deserved.

Shaking the dark thoughts and fledgling, and persisting concern about the quality or even existence of his soul, Becker restrained Weasel's hands behind his back, locking them in the metal circlets, and pushing him down to sit upon the roof. Quinn was helping Temple to his feet, the science geek rubbing the back of his head and bringing a bloodied, hobo-gloved hand forward to examine. He paled at the site of it.

"Ow." was the only comment he made.

"I thought you were going to stash him in one of the safe houses," Becker accused Quinn.

"Well, I thought _you_ said you could handle this on your own," Quinn countered, "Which obviously you _could not_."

"Uh, guys?" Connor Temple interrupted, pushing between the semi-serious posturing of the pair of alpha males to study his latest piece of tech.

"Did _he_ do anything to the Cascade?" The science geek indicated with a jab of his thumb the device and the madman grinning in an unnerving manner from where Becker had sat him.

"He was punching away at the keyboard like a trained chimp on crack when I pulled him away," Becker replied, identifying the cause for the blatantly obvious lack of relief he was feeling. "Should it be making that noise?"

There was a low hum, barely audible to human perception, the kind that tensed one's muscles and nauseated the brain. It began to scale up through various octaves, building, building, building... to _what?_

"It's charging up!" Connor announced loudly to be heard over the now deafening hum. "I can't believe the idiot actually turned it on."

"Why would you _ever_ build a device for a nutter that actually worked?" Quinn exclaimed, exasperation edging his voice and face.

"The 'Differentiator' was totally bogus," Connor replied with air quotes and a shrug. "I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to set off the Cascade without it. He'd have no way of knowing-"

"Can you shut it down?" Becker interrupted the borderline argumentative round of The Blame Game.

"Once it's begun cycling up, there's no way the energy build can be disrupted," he offered sheepishly. "Sorry."

"And what exactly does it do?"

The horrified look on Quinn's face should've been enough to measure the degree to which they were fucked; if the perpetual optimist couldn't see the bright side or a way out... But Becker desperately wanted to know what had been worth all of this, _this_...There was no word appropriate for the events that had preceded this moment.

"We're about to find out!" Connor shouted over the whining din currently emanating from the dubious, loathsome device. The tech geek threw himself flat upon the roof. Quinn shrugged and did likewise. His body protested to the harsh impact, but Becker followed suit as well.

The soldier had expected a massive fireball, a laser beam worthy of a Bond villain, or some sort of explosion, in the least. There wasn't even a sound wave to rumble through the ground, vibrate through the air, shatter windows and set burglar alarms off in the parking lot.

Becker glared at Connor for the additional ache of throwing himself to the ground and having to struggle to his unsteady feet once more.

"Better safe than sorry, mate," the young man offered as apology.

"I take it that it didn't work after all?" Becker observed dryly. Shouldn't that have made him happy?

"Not exactly," Connor drawled hesitantly, pointing his finger at something in the distance.

Shit!

It sat like a tumor, bulging from the side of a ten story building about a mile away. At that distance, without the aide of a scope or binoculars, Becker had been taught never to assume anything. The details were always important. However, there was no doubting the glittering tear in time and space for what is was. There simply was nothing that compared to an Anomaly.

"It opened an anomaly?" Becker queried incredulously. "I didn't think you had even figured out how to close them."

"Amazin' what motivators big scary men with guns pointed at your friends are," Connor replied. "I'd some theories, just never the time to explore them."

"I'm happy things worked out so well for you," Becker said wryly. His intention wasn't to take out what was promising to be the most spectacular of bad moods on the young scientist. He just had compressed the anger into such a tight little knot, there was no telling when and where it'd burst.

"Look, there," Danny Quinn said, pointing at a faint sparkling in the distant sky. He turned slightly, jabbing his finger in a different direction. "And there."

Anomalies were blinking on like stars appearing a twilight sky. Becker lost count after a dozen.

"Connor?"

Quinn had certainly been a cop for good reason. The authoritative aspect of the man's tone caused Temple to shrink and cast his eyes downward like an admonished child.

"It _is _called the Anomaly Cascade Device for a reason," He offered lamely as excuse.

"You mean that every anomaly in a range of...?" Becker prompted.

"50 kilometres, give or take."

"50 kilometres," Becker growled, before continuing, "-is now open, letting god knows what kind of creatures run amok."

"How many are we talking here?" Quinn asked.

"Er..."

Becker was so in a killing mood. He was going to murder the annoying little geek. That's all there was to it. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ he could do but embrace his fate.

The soldier sighed.

This day was too fucking long already, and the possibility that it had only just begun made him more than a little want to dive head-first off the roof into the sweet embrace of the asphalt below.

"It worked!"

The maniacal laughter that followed the outburst disturbed Becker beyond almost everything he had witnessed since that morning which seemed an eternity ago. Honestly, he had never encountered that many certifiably insane persons in the combined experience of his life previous. Persons with terrible motivations and flawed systems of logic, yes, but completely off-the-wall lunatics? Less than a handful. What was it like begin trapped in such a mind? What could push one over the edge like that?

Then again, sometimes people just jumped.

"All I have to do is find the right one!" Weasel cried, struggling to his feet. The crazed man's eyes seemed to water. Wait, no. There was something glittering in them, a reflection of intangible particles sparkling in the air.

Along with Quinn and Temple, Becker turned around slowly, already knowing what they'd find behind them. An anomaly in full-event, strong, stable, tugging at the metal on their clothing from over ten metres away.

Hands still bound behind his back, Weasel gleefully belted for the great tear in time. Becker couldn't say he was sorry to see him go, except perhaps he'd never witness the come-uppence the little bastard had earned, to see the realization and remorse in the man's eyes.

Then again, the notion of justice would be lost on such a man. No last minute repentance for the sins he had committed, not when reality had so been warped in his brain.

There was a rattling from a few feet behind them, a kind of metallic shaking. And then the Cascade Device went whipping past them, pulled by the electromagnetic siren song. Quinn had the faculty to dive after it, grabbing hold of something (which could possibly have been a hair dryer) apparently attached solidly enough to the main body, to prevent it from being sucked into the anomaly and lost for all time. Becker dove after him, placing himself between the tech and the anomaly, holding it still.

"Connor, shut them down!" Quinn barked, his jaw clenched, straining against the powerful pull in an attempt to aide Becker's hold on the Cascade Device. Under normal circumstances, either man could've managed on his own, but both were obviously worn by the struggles of the day.

"Alright, Alright. Keep your socks on," Temple threw his hands into the air in a show of false surrender. "No need to get snippy, I should be able to get this baby to emit an EMP on a reverse frequency."

"And that will work?" Becker just had to ask. With Connor Temple, science was never an exacting endeavour.

"It's all I've got," he replied, the worry and fear apparent in his wide eyes. And then it dissipated, replaced by his 'focused geek' mode, as his fingers began to dance across the keyboard.

"How much longer?" Becker could feel the lactic acid pooling in his muscles, the overwhelming fatigue of continuous strain on already exhausted tissue. And judging by the expression on Quinn's face, the stubborn (possibly even more so than Becker) man also was growing weary of battling the anomaly's unwavering determination to claim the technological monstrosity.

"It took me over an hour to program the Cascade pulse," Connor explained without removing his gaze from the laptop screen. The rapid clicking of keys denoted his ability to multitask under pressure. "So work with me people, give me a few minutes."

"We might not have a few minutes. Hundreds, if not thousands of people all over London might not have those _few minutes_," Quinn growled.

"Whoa now," Temple defended. "I'm working as fast as I can."

There was a rumbling, which went unnoticed by the bickering pair, but was picked up by the unease that had not yet left the soldier despite the seeming neutralization of the hostiles. Maybe it was just coming down off the adrenaline high achieved by running about the ARC, causing explosions, being tortured, engaging in hand-to-hand combat, that had left him feeling edgy. But it was definitely a good thing. It gave him enough to time to motion for the others to be silent, and back them away from the anomaly.

And then there was shouting, incoherent, crazed, as the anomaly spit a looney out onto the roof. Weasel ran, yelling gibberish. The rumbling turned into a distinct _thump thump_. It was Steven Spielberg worthy in its theatricality, and should've been ironically comical, but it was unnerving. Becker glanced down, half expecting to find a pool of water with ripples rhythmically marring its placid service in time with the thundering _thump thump, thump thump. _

It seemed slow motion, yet occurred in a matter of seconds from that first faint rumbling, to the reappearance of Weasel, the footsteps, the deafening roar, the giant, scarred, lizard head with menacingly soiled teeth and a gaping mouth scooping up the madman, chopping down with a sickening crunch, a twitching leg disappearing back through the anomaly, and the eerie silence of shock.

"Allosaurus or possibly Saurophaganax ," Connor whispered mechanically before falling silent once more.

"Guess that wasn't the 'right' anomaly," Quinn observed dryly after another moment had passed.

"It's ready!" Temple announced, cracking his fingers. He grinned idiotically at them, no doubt satisfied with his amazing tech geek skills, and expecting some sort of praise from his audience.

He did not receive such.

"Well? Do it, then," Quinn barked.

"Oh, right." The dark-haired young man turned his attention back towards the godforsaken device, finger hovering over a key.

"In five, four..." He caught his teammates expressions. "Fine."

He pressed the button.

* * *

**A/N: Just a couple more chapters to go... if anyone is still interested after this update taking so long. (Those chapters are actually partially written, however.)**


	8. Evaluation

**Author's Note: Apologies again…not really worth the wait just for the conclusion, was it? Some explanations and angst, though.

* * *

**

Smiles. Pats on the back. Petting and fawning over him. Becker supposed that the man deserved the accolade. Although if it weren't for the little science geek savant, they wouldn't have been a little more than a lone _G. Rex _away from the Apocalypse in the first place.

No.

That was unfair. It wasn't Temple's fault that loonies successfully infiltrated the ARC and held the majority of its staff hostage. If the responsibility were to fall anywhere, it was upon Becker's shoulders alone.

Besides, he really did like Connor Temple and the rest of the deranged anomaly chasers. They were -sad fact thought it was- the closest to real friends he'd had since before he joined the military-and quite a while previous, to be entirely honest. Not that he wasn't close to his fellow soldiers; they shared an immutable bond that could be found nowhere else. However, they weren't friends in the conventional sense; they tended to fall into the categories of colleagues (aka someone who might get you killed) or brothers (someone for whom you would kill or get killed). The differentiation basically boiled down to the amount of shit they'd been through together.

With the ARC, the situation was different. There were his men, soldiers to the core, people to whom he knew precisely how to relate. But he spent most of his time with the rag-tag bunch of civilians, and it was a whole different set of societal protocol (or lack thereof) to which he had to reacclimatize.

Yet, for all their tendencies towards foolhardiness, not heeding his advice, and outright mocking and teasing him, he really rather liked them all. Quinn was typical alpha male, and rather predictable in his rashness. Connor Temple and Abby Maitland wore their hearts on their sleeves. And Dr. Page was still somewhat of a mystery to him-_God, he hoped she was okay_.

As if the memory of her battered form weren't enough to knot his stomach with guilt, the medics chose that precise moment to wheel her unconscious body past him, stowing the gurney securely in the back of an ambulance. Abby appeared hesitant to be separated from her side, looking momentarily lost until she spotted Becker where he sat waiting for the return of the insistent pests known as paramedics, whom he had shooed away to assist some of the others first. He hadn't been ready to be poked and prodded, and otherwise thoroughly harassed. Or perhaps, he felt he deserved the pain that was just beginning to cut through the numbness which was his all-too-familiar post-combat norm. Either way, he had wanted to be alone.

Now he was desperate for a few simple words from Abby, to know that no one else would..._die_ for his failures.

The young, currently exhausted-looking woman spotted Temple while she was making her way towards the forlorn ARC soldier, side-tracking her. She hugged the shy young man who was utterly smitten with her, apologizing and fussing over him when he flinched from the contact.

Becker noticed she checked the fresh bandage the medics had somehow fastened to the back of his head despite the mass of messy black hair.

And then everyone seemed to converge upon the weary soldier at once; Connor and Abby, Danny Quinn, annoying persons with not enough medical training to merit their smug looks of self-importance.

Outflanked and outmatched, there was nothing else for the soldier to do but surrender. Besides, Abby Maitland held intelligence vital to his already dubious sanity.

Knowing he could not consider a single word any of them had to say without first ascertaining said desired intelligence, Becker preempted them.

"Is Sarah...?" He choked on the words. Some brave man he was. He couldn't even ask the damn question.

"She's going to be fine," Abby asserted. It was difficult to discern whether her statement was based in fact or just a product of determined belief. Becker took the more optimistic option.

Sarah _would _be okay. If necessary, they would patch her up in hospital. And she most definitely would not suffer any permanent damage on the account of his failure. No more blood on his hands.

He swallowed hard.

"Who was the nutter, anyway?" He asked, pushing aside thoughts of Dr. Page's broken form being rushed away by medics, shoving them down to reside amongst images of executed colleagues, innocents.

Danny opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Becker's grunt of pain as one of the medics twisted his bandaged arm about, searching for the end of the wrapping. .

"What are you doing?" Becker snapped, pulling his arm away.

"We need to determine the extent of the damage, sir. Whether or not we can treat it here." The young woman appeared to be disturbed, frightened even, by the level of violence the ARC team's injuries represented.

"Multiple fractures at the very least," Abby supplied. "No lacerations.

The medic looked somewhat stumped.

"It's not my blood," Becker elucidated flatly, his attention focused far away from the prodding medics. Why he deserved two picking at him at one time was beyond him. Hadn't he suffered enough already?

"So, this nutter..." He prompted.

"He _was_ a Mr. Randell Morton," Danny Quinn replied, emphasizing the past tense aspect of the man's current nature.

"A file clerk," Connor Temple added, like it was a far more amusing joke than reality ever merited.

"What?" Becker was confused, which was the least of his psychological issues at the moment, but possibly the most frustrating. "How did he...?"

"Find out about the ARC?" Temple finished for him. "Bureaucracy strikes again. All of our reports are filed electronically, but apparently that doesn't sit right with Whitehall. Mr. Morton was the one charged with securing the paper trail."

"But why do this?" Abby asked, the pain and sadness contorting her pretty, elfin features.

"With his type, we might not ever know the reason," Danny Quinn sagely supplied.

"I know," Connor offered quietly, soberly. All eyes focused on the young man, even those of the eavesdropping medics. "He told me."

"His daughter was three years old when she was killed in a hit-and-run right before his eyes."

"And he figured he could get her back by changing history," Danny summarized. "Our reports told him as much. People can be changed, disappear entirely. Why not the other way around? It was just a matter of finding the right anomaly."

They fell into a somber silence. Weasel-_Morton_ had simply gone mad with grief. Becker accrued yet another layer of guilt added to numerous others gained during the day, for his hatred, his inability to forgive the man. Had he not done the same when faced with the unwarranted death of those he cared about? How would he forgive himself for spreading the death and madness even further, if he could not forgive the source?

He should've saw it for it was, put a stop to it, refused to cultivate it by his own violent actions. But he couldn't help who he was, could he? He did the job that others could not, spared them, protected them. He was their buffer against the dark.

"Did you sustain any other injuries, sir?" The female medic interrupted the uncomfortable silence, having given up on discovering any by the 'poking until the patient cries out in pain' method.

"He was grazed by a bullet, on his left side," Abby substitute for Becker's reluctance.

"That's already been seen to," He added, shaking off the disheartening contemplations that seemed to accompany the pain hand-in-hand.

Abby smiled at his confidence in her abilities but added, "It was a hasty job and should be examined by the professionals."

Becker sighed. The fatigue was so great (whether from maintaining incredible levels of adrenaline for far too many hours straight, or a side effect of the involuntary shock treatment, he wasn't certain) that he had almost forgotten the stinging sensation setting his abdomen aflame.

"I've got another flesh wound on my stomach," He confessed.

The male medic, of nondescript features, came at him a little too eagerly brandishing a pair of scissors. One too many doctor dramas for the lad. Cutting a victim's shirt open was all very impressively dramatic, but Becker was having one hell of a day and he wasn't about to sacrifice a good black shirt to its events. He closed his hand around cutting implement and man's fist alike, and shoved them aside.

Taking the hem of his shirt, he started to pull it over his head, wincing at the stupid idea as the fabric was torn from where it had fused to his exposed muscle. It had served as a bandage of sorts, soaking up the blood, clotting. Removing it was almost like having the skin torn from him again.

He had never been that timid about his body, but when he saw the looks on his colleagues faces, he felt more shy and vulnerable than ever before. Quinn gave him a sympathetic grimace. Temple had gone rather pale, and looked a bit nauseated. Abby looked as if she were about to cry.

"Oh, Becker," she exclaimed quietly, turning her face away. Her blatant compassion would've been rather touching, had he not seen the same look of sympathy in her eyes over injured, mindless animals. It was just as sincere, and he did appreciate her concern, but he was never comfortable with people fussing over him, even though he was quite certain he looked a mess at the moment.

Even the pair whose jobs was patching up people (or bar that, gathering up the pieces to send to hospital) faltered upon the sight of his partially flayed abdomen. Regaining her wits, the woman tried to stem the renewed flow of blood with sterile gauze.

"You need a graft," The male medic commented hoarsely after he returned from vomiting a few feet off to the side.

"Just stick a plaster on it," Becker growled through gritted teeth as the tawny haired woman attempted to dress the oozing wound with more delicacy than she had previously bestowed upon his person. "I'll be fine."

"Oh, c'mon, mate," Quinn chided. "Be a man and let a doctor take care of that."

Becker simply nodded his head, feeling light-headed over the complaints rushing from his raw nerve-endings, flooding his throbbing brain.

_Now what?_

Lester's assistant came up to them, a pensive look upon her face. It was so odd an occurrence that they all fell into silent anticipation of what the demure woman had to say. It had to be something considerable in order to put her out of sorts-she was James Lester's assistant after all.

"Captain Becker," she addressed the soldier, who raised a curious eyebrow at her. "The police left a message while..." she trailed off, uncertain how to describe the incident that consumed the ARC's morning. "I'm sorry, sir. Apparently, there was a fire in your flat this morning."

Seriously? What had he done to Fate to illicit such bias against him? Was it so much to ask that he have his own place to go to curl up and die?

"Well, good thing you'll be spending the night in hospital, eh, Becker?" Danny commented, jovially slapping him on the back, which caused Becker to wince and cough in pain. Danny looked thoughtful for a moment. "Make that a couple days."

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**A/N: However much fun it is playing with the good little soldier boy, I couldn't got on torturing him forever (in this one fic). **

**A/N 2: Poor Becker. Wondering where the hell the comfort is in all this? Epilogue should be up tomorrow. :-)**


	9. Rest

**Author's note: I originally thought of posting this as a separate story, but in order to justify my label of hurt/comfort, I suppose there should actually be some comfort in this story :-)**

**Thus, here is some sugar. (From Sarah's perspective because she was sort of neglected in the body of the fic-and I like her.) This wasn't meant to be shippy (just 'friendly like'), but doubtless it could be taken that way.

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**

**Epilogue**

Her body had never been so fatigued, her muscles so sore. Even on the most exhausting of digs, after sixteen hour days of hauling dirt in the direct, scalding sun of the Egyptian desert, Dr. Sarah Page had never felt so completely worn out. She released an immense sigh of relief as she plopped down on her sofa.

"Kettle's on."

"Thanks," Sarah said gratefully, giving the man who appeared out of the kitchen a wide smile.

"I'll be... er...leaving then."

"Becker, you don't have to go," Sarah said, both confused and amused that he seemed so uncomfortable.

"You need your rest, not company," he asserted. Something about his demeanor, the way his eyes lingered upon her face-examining the bruising no doubt still lingering there... He didn't really want to leave her alone.

"Sit." She opted to forego the 'please', knowing an order would be far more effective since it circumvented his forebrain and it was practically instinct for him to obey commands.

He sat in the chair that was the sofa's mate in colour and design, as far away as possible from her as he could get whilst still remaining in the same room. It seemed odd, since the more Sarah considered her fragmentary memory of being in hospital, the more assured she was of his ever-present vigil at her side. However, if it weren't for her sister's not so subtle questions about the cute albeit uptight guy always hanging about, she would never have realized.

Undoubtedly, he had spent his fair share of time as an inpatient before being released to haunt Sarah's room. His left wrist and forearm were in a brace. And there were still discolorations staining his exposed skin-the remnants of combat, and torture. What he had gone through, she could not imagine... He had not said a word about it to anyone, not a complaint, but Abby had told Sarah about the horrible shape the soldier had been at the end of that day, tears welling in her eyes as she described what they had found in that room. The bodies, the gore, the ghastly instruments.

The thought of someone she knew, would even call a friend, suffering so horribly-it made her physically ill. And yet she still studied the man, wondering at how he could hold himself together so well, when she felt like curling up in a ball and crying herself to sleep.

She met his eyes.

Hastily, they both looked away, as if they were strangers catching one another staring across a restaurant or in the tube. It was enough to see the weariness, the sadness in their dark depths, the absence of that good humour he always seemed to possess, and Sarah found she could no longer bear looking in his direction at all. If she did, she just knew that she would bound across the room despite the protestation of her stiff muscles, and wrap her arms around the man in an attempt to soothe him like a child with a scraped knee.

They continued to sit in silence, each staring off in their own little world rather than studying the other. The kettle whistled, and they both jumped.

"I've got it," Becker announced, quicker to rise to his feet than she.

When he returned with a couple steaming mugs of tea, she somehow managed to coax him into sitting beside her.

"Do you mind?" she asked, indicating her intent to stare mindlessly at the television. He shrugged his consent, sipping at the hot beverage.

Ugh! Violence...sex...more violence... Ooh! Drawn by the charming face of Carey Grant in full black and white glory, she paused, and then decided her search was over. Nothing like _Philadelphia Story_ in which to lose your troubles.

She glanced at her guest. Definitely not a film she'd believe to appeal to the soldier, but he made no complaint. He sat beside her, quietly drinking his cup of tea, and long after it was empty.

Surely, she had given him the excuse to relax, to not be alone in his troubled state. And Sarah would not care if he wanted to say he remained to make her feel safe, to protect her.

She must have nodded off, for Katherine Hepburn was promising to be 'yar' before she realized it. And Becker-his breathing had changed. He was fast asleep, his head lolling ever so slightly onto her shoulder. It was not an easy task, but she managed to shift his body so that he lay on the sofa, his head in her lap. And she knew how massively exhausted the man truly was, for he did not stir in the least, an oddity for a highly strung military type. Perhaps, he felt safe with her. She certainly hoped it were the case.

She caught herself absently running fingers through his currently rakish dark hair, hesitating over the intimate, near-motherly action that would doubtless not be well received. When he yet remained dead to the world asleep, she resumed her coddling of the broken soldier, if only because it gave _her_ some measure of comfort.

Noticing the blood crusted about different places of his scalp, denoting wounds not yet healed, she sighed.

The poor man. He took such abuse just to spare others. And lord knew they didn't go out of their way to make his job any easier.

She whispered gently into his ear, hoping he'd heed her advice.

"Let someone else watch over _you_ for once."

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**A/N: Well, that was fun… now what shall I do?**


End file.
